MADE FOR YOU AND ME 2: hive Being (Stanzas 2017—part 55)
Let's workshop this stanza sequence about the ancientness of rap battles, Pindar, writing, painting, sculpting, hotel doormen, drug withdrawal, juries, toupees, trans-inclusive coloring books, dancing
scent of the day: Oud Monarch, by Bortnikoff
Oud Monarch (2020)—a tropical-cacao oud fragrance that tilts greenhouse florals toward an edible opulence of chocolate-rose sensuality with just enough watercolor understatement and yet whipped-cream-and-chocolate aura to make this an ideal Valentine’s Day fragrance (although less for the down-low high-school fling in a pleated skirt, her teeny-bopper friends—asking for it too—giggling by the school bus as you sit low in the car—back again after another pregnancy scare—bumping the “Saweetie” she likes, than for a more-rose-bud-prolapse-prone MILF with sagging gravity and a gap like Beldar Conehead at the dentist and Melody Gardot queued in her Spotify)—
opens with a medicinal red carpet for suntan-vacation florals that would drop Francesca Bianchi’s panties (nectarous-apricot frangipani, which imparts a texture-aroma of whipped-butter cake mix, blonde batter just starting to fluff out almondy smells in the oven, and fruit-spritzer magnolia, which imparts a texture-aroma reminiscent of waxy lemon leaf that seems to radiate, strange at it might seem to say given its cuticle feel, a sea-breeze ethereal quality not too far from Bortnikoff-style—even Tauer-style—ambergris were it not for a shroomy nuance as if of garden hands lathered with bar soap),
the sun-ripe lushness of this banana-coconut bouquet (a white-yellow bouquet that, although not at the Christian-Bale top of the marque, I am starting to see as the true Heath-Ledger star, the true magnetic center, of this Dark Knight) given—by means of musky-pissy civet and sour-metal rose (breezy herbal-tea Himalayan rose, dewy citrus-stem May rose)—not the fuck-your-lights out hit that we get from a Liz Moores feline perfume or a Cecile Zarokian feline body but rather a more-sparkling-than-scuzzy quality that makes me think of the Far-East sun trope of Gung-Fu-cinema from the early 70s (a closeup on a diminutive dawn sun rendered even more diminutive by a jerky crash-zoom pullback meant to highlight the immense distance of the sea horizon)
and yet, for all its morning-centering sunshine, dimmed—as if you are seeing the dawn scene through cheap sunglasses—by several darkening elements (elements that give a shade feel but without going as far as to seem like those early-60s Bond movies and Gilligan’s Island episodes where the nighttime scenes were really shot in day but given a moonlight tint through a combination of blue-blocker lenses and underexposure of the film):
(1) the box-office-draw combo of roasted-nut cacao, which brings a bitter-coffee nuance as well as hints of florals (jasmine, violet, rose), plus several tropical-green ouds (root-beer Co Chang oud, a Trat oud from Co Chang Island that imparts a medicinal-sarsaparilla edge of decayed tobacco and moldering mango skin, and mossy-mineralic Merauke oud, an Indonesian oud from the Papua province that imparts a medicinal-fungal edge of bitter myrrh and a galbanum-jungle edge that goes more dank and peaty and rubbery than the more ferny and citrusy and airy Sri Lankan oud of Oud Sinharaja and Triad), a baker’s-chocolate cacao plus fern-rot oud that together constitute the main source of the hobbit-shire earthiness (corduroy pants, earthtone Wallabees);
(2) the dusty-desiccated blend of barn-cured tobacco (hung leaves whose raisin-leather nuance, amplified by musky-tar combo of labdanum and castoreum, seems activated by sun) and stale-raisin cinnamon (sweet bark whose clovey warmth, amplified by the ambery combo of labdanum and vanilla, also seems activated by sun), a tobacco and cinnamon whose pipe-ash quality works with the heavy exotic florals and the light castoreum-civet carnality to bring to mind the animalic-bubblegum aroma of L’Heure Exquise (a Bortnikoff release underappreciated even by myself)—
the overall result being, despite containing varieties of both notes, not a rose oud but rather a sunny white-floral chocolate oud that we might see as a tropical-truffle-meets-jungle-bubblegum spin on the woodier-earthier-nuttier-boozier Tabac Dore, whose own chocolate-cinnamon-tobacco-trat concoction (where damp forest-floor Merauke oud is swapped for the fruiter and cheesierfermentation-focused Vietnamese oud) creates a more aged-antique aura (more jagged and charred and musty cigar box in a dusty study than smooth and sensual and bright ganache in a confectioners display window) due to the lack of velvet-robe florals and their smoothing effect.
*This is a portion of an ongoing mosaic poem called Made for You and Me. This portion is from the first installment: hive Being (Stanzas 2016-2020). More specifically, it is from the 2017 portion of that five-part work.
MADE FOR YOU AND ME 2: hive Being (Stanzas 2017—part 55) cheers to those covered women who burned alive for not converting Caldors has disappeared from memory like Chinese zodiac placemats chest thuds of palsied hands the most violent religion is the one that claims to be the final revelation, the last word nature has a heart—we do, for example the urinous side of good honey the hotel bellhop doorman—expected, no explicit order needed from on high, never to open the door for those of his kind crack rock for the stillborn-labor pains— the first time she hit the blackened bubbler the whole six months without guilt all other things being equal, trust the culture whose gods look almost nothing like their envisioners prelinguistic why—why any of it—arose, if only in moments fleeting, well before humans he did not refuse the kid from sitting on his lap despite the snowball he knew would grow if the best shit of your life did not require at least some strain, the noose would be the chef’s kiss for those booze withdrawals that grant no more than two hours of shuteye you can picture the bottle-snuggle workarounds of teddy-and-child pathos— but are we not talking pure insanity when the culprit is caffeine or cocaine? he went about saying (mainly to himself, of course) that he sacrificed his life to sculpting, but perhaps he really sacrificed it to performance anxiety— performance anxiety that merely wore the tuxedo of loner sculpting he takes his pen and, instead of writing, scratches “ass" over the face of the writer twenty years his younger— scoured letters only visible at a slant in the sunlight rap battles no doubt were occurring way before the kilted men were rhyming clever boasts and insults at one another on the 5th century Scottish highlands— we might not know where it did, but we know that it did (because it is human) making her pay for sending him to a shrink via the age-old report: “the shrink helped me see the best move would be to break up” “although you end up becoming who you are anyway" could be tacked on at the end of Pindar's “become who you are" as a warning, but it is already implicit the message “stop thinking while you write” for most people only enables a bad habit— for him, however, it was a cure for his some feel gypped when the writer drifts into “soft areas,” esoteric areas so beyond the concrete they are beyond black holes; others feel gypped if they stick to “hard areas” and all their sweaty smells—so who are you? in what was described as a monumental achievement of equity, the activist celebrated the first male-female trans pregnancy: abortion being, in “her” words, a rite of passage into womanhood that we have too long been denied night-sticking his way to the center of the crowd juries bored enough to impose harsher sentences he needed to hide his bald spot—yet, not wanting to look like the last one to know everyone saw through his hiding, he bought a toupee so lousy no one could think he did not know trans-inclusive coloring book: unicorn with top surgery scars beneath a rainbow armband you feel bad liking a woman who likes you for your clothes, but— really—what do you like her for? our world is no longer so white that it is bad manners to name a fine sea-vessel “ShaNiqua” transubstantiationists scoffing at those who think that Bulgarian dog spinning really works to ward off evil mindfulness preached as a cure for the mindfulness that has us reach for drinks to free our hips yachtsmen of tomorrow buttering up robotic bridge tenders with annual gifts, but likely not of cigars and whiskey when her soul mate slapped the shit out of her, a big chunk of the fecal matter was what we call “unconditional trust”—trust even of day ones always there, blowing kazoos at the end of each new trail she found after losing her way
"MADE FOR YOU AND ME 2: hive Being (Stanzas 2017—part 55)" is a sprawling, fragmented, and intensely provocative installment in a series that functions as a hyperrealist cultural commentary and invective. The poem navigates a vast landscape of contemporary anxieties, moral ambiguities, and societal pathologies, often employing shock and juxtaposition to expose perceived hypocrisies and ironies.
Formally, the "poem" is a relentless barrage of disconnected observations, statements, and shocking vignettes, presented in a list-like, unpunctuated progression. This formal fragmentation mirrors the thematic chaos it depicts. The absence of traditional poetic structure amplifies the sense of an unfiltered download of consciousness, a cacophony of modern disquiet. The syntax is largely declarative and often blunt, contributing to a sense of direct, almost accusatory address. The constant and jarring shifts in subject matter—from religious critique ("the most violent religion is the one that claims to be the final revelation") to personal vices ("crack rock for the stillborn-labor pains") to cultural trends ("trans-inclusive coloring book")—create a profoundly disorienting effect. This formal disarray is a deliberate choice, reflecting a world where coherence is elusive and meaning is perpetually contested. The deliberate use of highly offensive and controversial statements is a key rhetorical strategy, designed to provoke and shock the reader into confronting uncomfortable truths or to expose what the poetic voice perceives as societal absurdities.
Thematically, the poem is a brutal exploration of moral decay, hypocrisy, and the pathologies of contemporary society. It relentlessly targets various aspects of modern culture, including:
Critique of Religious Dogma and Spirituality: The poem challenges claims of ultimate truth in religion ("the most violent religion is the one that claims to be the final revelation"), and cynically observes human tendencies in spiritual belief ("all other things being equal, trust / the culture whose gods look / almost nothing like their envisioners").
Human Nature and Primal Impulses: It delves into darker aspects of human behavior, from the capacity for cruelty and moral compromise ("the hotel bellhop doorman—expected... never to open the door for those of his kind") to the universality of aggression ("rap battles no doubt were occurring way before the kilted men were rhyming"). It also touches on existential questions about purpose ("prelinguistic why—why / any of it—arose").
Addiction and Self-Deception: The poem starkly portrays the grip of addiction and the self-delusion involved in coping ("crack rock for the stillborn-labor pains," "the bottle-snuggle workarounds"). It also touches on deeper psychological mechanisms, like performance anxiety disguising itself as dedication ("sacrificed his life to sculpting, but perhaps he really sacrificed it to performance anxiety").
Critique of Contemporary Identity Politics and Social Trends: The poem directly engages with contentious topics surrounding gender identity, race, and victimhood culture. Examples include the unsettling "trans-inclusive coloring book: / unicorn with top surgery scars," and the activist celebrating "the first male-female trans pregnancy: abortion being... a rite of passage into womanhood." It also challenges notions of racial politeness ("our world is no longer so white / that it is bad manners to name / a fine sea-vessel “ShaNiqua”").
The Nature of Art and Creative Process: The poem briefly touches upon the internal struggles of writers ("the message “stop thinking while you write”... was a cure for his") and the varying expectations of readers regarding "soft" versus "hard areas" in literature.
The poem, presented by an unsparing poetic voice, constructs a bleak vision of a "hive Being"—a collective human existence characterized by shocking transgressions, intellectual dishonesty, and a pervasive sense of malaise, where traditional values and distinctions are eroding under the weight of perversion and societal pressures. The final image of "unconditional trust" being equated with "fecal matter" after an act of domestic violence provides a profoundly cynical capstone, suggesting that even the purest forms of loyalty are tainted and messy.
cultural critique, postmodernism, fragmentation, moral decay, social commentary, invective, shock value, taboos, contemporary issues, identity politics, transgressive, addiction, human nature, religion, gender identity, race, urban existence.